


teenage girl

by majesdanes



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-14
Updated: 2016-01-14
Packaged: 2018-05-13 21:56:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5718532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/majesdanes/pseuds/majesdanes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hogwarts AU; "Emma recognizes in the aftermath that it’s her fault; mud had been dripping from every inch of her since the match had ended (she half-thinks anyone who wanted to find her could track her from the entryway up five floors to this very room, based solely on the mud-path she’d trailed in her wake), and the marble floor of the prefect’s bathroom is still dark with it in places. Regina takes one step (not poised, as she usually is, but irritable, hasty) and slips in it, pitches forward into the bubbling water with a splash so massive it wets Emma’s feet even from where she’s standing, paces away. She surfaces in an instant, dark curls springing free of that pristine bun and sticking to wet cheeks, foam gathering on her shoulders and in her hair like fresh snow.</p><p>And Emma can’t keep back the peals of clear, delighted laughter that burst from her at the sight of Regina Mills, soaked, fully-clothed and spitting mad."</p>
            </blockquote>





	teenage girl

**Author's Note:**

> This is totally indulgent of me and absolutely cheesy, but I meant for it to be that way. Also, if it isn't clear: Regina and Emma are both in Gryffindor here.

It’s still pouring when the team presses through the double-doors and into the castle; they’re drenched from head to toe, hair sodden and dripping, uniforms so thick with mud that the caretaker will be furious with them for tracking it inside. But none of that matters, because they’d _won_ (more than that, managed a victory so impressive it’d likely leave the Slytherins seething for weeks after) and Emma’s been grinning so widely and for so long that her cheeks are starting to ache. 

She’d accepted the position of quidditch captain with a certain amount of trepidation–not because the prospect was _totally_ unappealing to her, but because maybe, at least on some level, she hadn’t felt like the right person for the job. Taking on the role of captain meant responsibility, meant _commitment_ : “Not exactly my strong suit,” she’d snorted when the letter first came, and forced a wry smile that never quite met her eyes. Emma Swan, after all, had a storied history of bolting for the hills whenever the going got tough; the thought of being _relied_ on in any capacity, let alone by so many people, had made something in her stomach seize up.

But she’d proven it, hadn’t she?–that she was capable, that she’d _earned_ this. If the flushed, beaming faces surrounding her are any indication, then, well–she’s not half-bad is she? 

It’s exhilarating, basking in the afterglow of their victory; her batting arm is still sore from hefting the club for all those hours, there’s a throbbing spot on her collarbone from a stray bludger that had caught her off guard, and she’s not sure if she wants to sleep for hours or never again. She settles instead for the tempting prospect of a shower (if she waits too much longer, she’ll be cracking the mud off in solid flakes), and manages to shrug off the lure of the common room party, with enough food and firewhiskey smuggled in from Hogsmeade to feed all of Gryffindor house. It’s privacy that she needs now, a place to shake the tension from her bones, scrub away at the dirt that cakes her skin until the adrenaline buzz softens and she can breathe steady again. And she realizes, then, even as her feet lead her down the familiar hallway toward the Gryffindor bathrooms, that the prefect’s bathroom _is_ –technically–hers to use now. _The_ prefect’s bathroom, with its bathtub the size of a swimming pool, the filmy multi-hued soap bubbles and the jeweled taps that that infuriatingly _pretentious_ Head Girl had been boasting about since she’d gained access to it in their fifth year. 

Curiosity gets the better of her and she sucks in a breath, slows her steps and heads for the fifth floor. She spends nearly five minutes standing at the bathroom’s threshold, rummaging in still-soggy pockets for the scrap of paper with the password for entry while the adjacent statue of Boris the Bewildered looks down its marble-hewn nose at her, and she’s beginning to think this is actually a _terrible_ idea after all when–finally, her hand seizes on something. “Uh,” she says, fumbling to unfold the paper without tearing it apart (and is it possible for a door to be impatient, because if so, this one _definitely_ is), and then tells it, “Sugar scrub?” pitched high and tentative, like she’s still not sure she’s really _supposed_ to be here. After a pregnant pause, the door does open, and Emma slips inside before it can change its mind.

Her first impression of the bathroom is: _This is kind of excessive._ Because she’s having trouble imagining why students would have any need of a giant chandelier, dangling over the bath and looking for all the world like it belongs in a castle ballroom. Still, she’s not _complaining_ , not when she’s covered with mingling sweat and mud and rainwater, and she’s sure she must smell nothing short of foul by this point. Or, anyway, she _wasn’t_ complaining until she’d hung her jacket on one of the many waiting hooks and whirled around (by all accounts, totally ready to dive right in), only to find someone standing with their back to her, wrestling a dark mass of hair into a careful bun in the mirror at the far end of the room.

Well: So much for being _alone_.

“Hey,” Emma tries, cautious now, because what exactly is the bathroom etiquette when there’s no one in the room but just the two of you? And would it be unforgivably rude if she stripped down and jumped right in like she’d been burning to practically all evening, because–

The girl doesn’t turn until she’s finished perfecting her bun, tucking away the last, lingering strand of hair with a precision bordering on extreme, and in retrospect, that alone should probably have been enough to identify her. Because of _course_ Regina Mills would choose to be here at the exact same time as Emma–looking dry and fresh-faced, naturally, since she (unlike every other student in the school) hadn’t bothered to trudge out into the rain to watch the afternoon’s match. “Swan,” she says, in tones that (impressively) manage to convey her annoyance and derision simultaneously, “I can only begin to imagine how you got your hands on the password to this bathroom.” 

It truly is incredible, how a handful of mere  _seconds_ spent in Mills’ presence are enough to rile her; a visible reaction is exactly what Regina wants, of course, and Emma does her best not to deliver, but it’s obvious from the way Regina’s lips turn up at one corner in the beginnings of a smirk that she hadn’t been all that successful. She reminds herself that _she’s_ unquestionably the one with the upper-hand this time around, and it’s with an easy smile that she flashes the badge pinned to her uniform, says cheerfully, “The headmaster gave it to me, actually.” She waits a beat, then, unable to keep herself from pressing the point, “We won today, by the way. I figure you wouldn’t know, since–you weren’t there, right?” 

“I’m flattered that you noticed my absence,” Regina tells her, and it’s as dry as anything she’s ever said but Emma can feel her face reddening anyway, because, well, it’s true, she _had–_ noticed, that is. 

“You’ve got a leaf in your hair,” she adds, almost idly, and raises a brow as Emma feels around for it in the candle-lit dimness. There’s apparently enough expectation in the ensuing silence that Regina feels the need to clarify: “And anyway, I have more important things to do with my time than watch a bunch of amateurs ride around on broomsticks for the better part of an hour.” 

“Of _course_ you do.” Emma gives a roll of the eyes that’s more exasperated than it is hostile–or, _mostly_ , anyway. “I’m guessing you get your kicks from studying, or…confiscating Zonko’s stuff from first years, or whatever.”

Regina’s got her back to Emma again, as though she’s decided this conversation isn’t important enough to merit eye contact. “Yes, well,” she says sleekly, “We can’t all be straight D students like you, Swan.” 

It’s a low blow. Worse: An accurate one.

“Right,” Emma bites out, stalking across the room toward the towel rack, “Well, this has been about as fun as I expected, so.” At this point, she would rather gargle rocks than bathe under Regina’s nose–or, Merlin forbid, _with_ her–no matter how thoroughly the foam and colorful bubbles had been designed to cover her; she’d take the showers in the back (and the privacy they afforded) even if they didn’t promise to be nearly as fancy as all this. And if it seems like she’s trying to get a rise out of Regina when she shrugs out of her cleats, her armguards, her shirt and pants, lets them pool at her feet and leaves them lying there with practiced (almost weaponized) nonchalance, well–if anyone deserves a taste of their own medicine, it’s Regina, right?

“What–? You’re just going to leave your clothes scattered all over the floor?” Regina asks, wrinkling her nose in distaste; it’s a juvenile kind of primness, and it makes Regina seem less invincible, somehow, more the seventeen year-old kid she actually is. 

It would almost have been endearing– _almost,_ if Regina wasn’t literally the devil’s own daughter; circumstances being what they are, it just makes the playing field seem infinitely more even. 

“Yup,” Emma says, easy and bright, and turns to leave. 

“You know other people _use_ this bathroom, right?” 

Emma recognizes in the aftermath that it’s her fault; mud had been dripping from every inch of her since the match had ended (she half-thinks anyone who wanted to find her could track her from the entryway up five floors to this very room, based solely on the mud-path she’d trailed in her wake), and the marble floor of the prefect’s bathroom is still dark with it in places. Regina takes one step (not poised, as she usually is, but irritable, hasty) and slips in it, pitches forward into the bubbling water with a splash so massive it wets Emma’s feet even from where she’s standing, paces away. She surfaces in an instant, dark curls springing free of that pristine bun and sticking to wet cheeks, foam gathering on her shoulders and in her hair like fresh snow.

And Emma can’t keep back the peals of clear, _delighted_ laughter that burst from her at the sight of Regina Mills, soaked, fully-clothed and spitting mad. 

But she’s not completely heartless (even if Regina no doubt deserves this and worse) and grudgingly, she darts forward, drops to her knees at the bath’s edge and extends a hand. “Stop flailing around like that, I can’t get a hold of you if you don’t stay _still_ ,” she snaps, frustration tempering the amusement she’d been feeling only moments ago.

Finally, Regina’s hand closes around her own. Triumphant, Emma tugs–and Regina tugs back, _hard,_ sending Emma sprawling right into the water.

_“What the hell?”_ she splutters, spitting out foam and bubbles and Merlin knows _what_ else, and if she wasn’t pissed before, she definitely is now. “I was trying to _help_ you–!”

That’s when Regina kisses her, jerks her forward and presses her lips to Emma’s like somehow this makes sense; like Regina’s hand falling to her waist, thumb resting against the strap of her soaked-through bra, forehead cool and damp against her own, makes sense; like, Regina’s teeth tugging gentle and insistent (and then, later, not half so gentle) at the skin of her bottom lip, wet-stockinged knees knocking up against Emma’s bare ones, makes _sense_.

And then: “Oh,” she says, because Regina’s pulled away, and she’s looking at Emma like she’s an _idiot_ for being so surprised, and “ _Oh…_ okay _,_ ” she says again, like everything’s suddenly clicked into place. 

“ _Okay?_ ” Regina echoes snidely, tilting her chin up high, and if Emma didn’t know better, she’d think she was hurt.

Emma bites at her lip (feels the answering burn where Regina’s teeth had worried it sore), and brushes a stray clump of foam from the curly mass of Regina’s hair. “So, all this time…?” 

Regina looks very much like someone teetering on the verge of a lie; relenting, she offers, “You’re _highly_ unobservant,” And then, in a scathing undertone, “Small wonder you were only struck by _one_ bludger on the pitch today.” She doesn’t seem to realize what she’s said until she catches Emma’s smile, so golden she’s glowing with it. 

“Ahah! You _did_ watch me play!” Regina only rolls her eyes, and the gesture’s as close to fond as Emma figures she can reasonably be expected to manage. 

“Mm,” she says, noncommittal. “I could just as easily have known by the bruise.” Beneath the water, Regina traces the tip of a finger along the still-fresh mark on her collarbone; Emma meets her eyes, swallows; tries, “Hey,” like this is easy, _casual_ , but the single word shakes out of her, so much like a confession that Regina’s smile turns satisfied at the sound of it. 

“Hey,” Regina murmurs, teasing and tentative all at once, and Emma surges forward just as Regina leans in. She kisses Emma slowly this time, languidly, like they’ve got all the time in the world, and her cheeks are damp and she smells of lavender bath salts (or maybe it's just this fucking _pool_ ), and it’s– _good._ Emma tangles a hand in Regina’s hair (for purchase, she tells herself, but it feels right–feels natural), and Regina draws away gently at the touch, ducks her head to press another kiss to Emma’s mouth, and then one more, all in quick succession until Emma’s heart is pounding in her chest and she’s not sure whether she wants to _kill_ her or–well. 

And then her hands are holding nothing, and Regina is hoisting herself (with regained elegance) over the lip of the bath into standing position. Peeling away her soaking-wet uniform as she goes, she passes the mirrors, passes the bath and a dumbfounded Emma still eying her with something halfway between confusion and impotent indignation, and swipes up Emma’s bag–the same bag containing her _only_ change of clothes. 

“ _Really_?” Emma groans, but by the time she’s halfway out, Regina’s down to that scrap of black lace she calls a bra, shimmying into Emma’s button-up with an expression of the utmost smugness. It’s a hair too big on her, so that the hem comes to fall somewhere near her hips, and Emma’s so distracted by the sight that she forgets momentarily to be angry. Regina takes advantage by tugging on every article of clothing she can find, right down to Emma’s stockings and tie. “And you’re leaving me with–what?” Emma asks dryly, making a valiant (but futile) attempt to wring some of the foamy water from her bra as she emerges from the bath. 

“What you came in with.” Regina gestures to the puddle of red and gold formerly known as Emma’s quidditch uniform. She gives a mocking approximation of a frown.“Too bad you left them on that wet floor all this time.” As though to press the point, she plucks the Head Girl badge from her wet (but impeccably folded) sweater, gives it a lazy polish and pins it to the front of Emma’s shirt. 

“ _Right_ …” Emma says slowly, toweling off now. “No way I’m putting those back on now, so…I guess this’ll have to do, huh?” 

Regina’s gaze lingers a second too long for propriety; her cheeks color when she meets Emma’s eyes, and a beat passes before she manages to break the contact. 

“See you in the common room,” Regina says at last, and there’s something almost _flustered_ beneath the lofty challenge in her voice that has Emma grinning long after she’d gone. 

 


End file.
